The Once and Perfect Gentleman
by Timid Wild One
Summary: Draco Malfoy sets out on a mission given to him by the Dark Lord. At the same time, he is desperate to know the identity of his father's murderer. Hermione has been leading a group of the Order alone. Can they give each other what they need most?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, all.**

**For those of you who are reading my other Harry Potter fanfiction, "My Life is in Shambles," I realize that this story is very different from what I've previously written. (And don't worry, I'm still actively writing it!) For those of you who haven't read it, if you're in the mood for something light, feel free to check it out and tell me what you think.**

**As always, constructive criticism and suggestions are appreciated. **

**U.K. READERS: I realize that Kimbolton is now a school. For the sake of the story, however, I'm ignoring its actual current use and simply referring to and using it as Kimbolton Castle.**

**WARNING: This story is going to be dark, and at times gruesome. I will probably not be warning readers when those bits are going to come in during each chapter so as not to ruin the element of surprise, so consider yourself forewarned.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from the wonderful world of Harry Potter, except this plot.**

**And here we go.**

**0000000000**

**The Once and Perfect Gentleman**

Adrian Pucey's head hit the floor with a sickening crack that reverberated around the silent room.

Lord Voldemort barely managed to stop himself from collapsing. Instead, he seated himself in the carved wooden throne behind him, wheezing as the adrenaline rush faded. He opened his mouth to speak, and was instead rewarded by a blood-filled cough. Once he had regained the necessary strength to speak, he looked about the room, taking in the bowed heads of the Death Eaters, his elite.

What weakness they showed.

None of them even dared look him in the face.

His slitted red eyes, a side effect of the Dark Magic he employed to keep himself from Death's doorstep, fell upon Draco Malfoy, the youngest person in the room. He sneered as he watched Malfoy avert his gaze from Pucey's blank face, a pleading expression frozen onto it.

Spineless creature, that Malfoy. Just like his father, the now-deceased Lucius Malfoy.

"Death is the price of failure," Voldemort said in a low voice. "While it pains me to have to kill one of my own, I had no choice. Pucey was unable to discover the whereabouts of the Order of the Phoenix-which should have been a relatively simple task."

He paused for a moment, to let the words sink in. Bellatrix Lestrange stepped forward, and opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a wave of his hand. He wasn't quite finished.

"All of you know how important it is that we capture Harry Potter. In order to continue this regime and end the war, we must have him alive. And in order to capture him, we need the current location of the Order of the Phoenix. Lord Malfoy, I am appointing _you _with this task. You will spend the rest of the evening sifting through what information we have, and you will leave tomorrow and begin your mission. I will expect you back in one week's time. Is that clear?"

Draco Malfoy stepped forward, head still bowed. "Yes, my Lord," he said quietly.

Voldemort nodded. "Good. Our records keeper will accompany you to the library and provide you with all that you need. You are dismissed."

Malfoy quickly crossed the room and exited through the wooden door on the other side.

Voldemort turned back to the remaining Death Eaters. He had special plans for them-plans that would end the war for good.

**0000000000**

Although he was loath to admit it, Draco Malfoy felt much older than his twenty years. The war had been raging for three years or so now, and it was exhausting. True, the Order of the Phoenix had long abandoned the pile of rubble that was formerly Number 12 Grimmauld Place, and the Dark Lord was in power, but his position was extremely precarious. Harry Potter still lived, and he and his friends had gotten better at strategy-in both hiding and fighting.

War destroys innocence, and changes people in the most unusual ways.

The young Malfoy followed the records keeper across the foyer and up to the second-floor library. He found it rather ridiculous that Voldemort had given him an escort-Malfoy Manor was _his _home, after all.

His Lordship must have had other reasons then, to keep Draco watched.

When he had heard from his father that the ancient manor was to be the new headquarters of the Death Eaters, he had nearly choked on his breakfast. Lucius Malfoy was quite an imposing man, never a hair out of place. He was someone who Draco looked up to as a pillar of strength, never yielding.

For him to step aside and simply…give up the ancestral home of the Malfoy family to Lord Voldemort seemed so out of character Draco had checked to be sure his father wasn't leaning out of a cabinet, boggart-style.

The elder Malfoy had (sometimes unfortunately) also possessed the uncanny ability to read people, which was probably what made him such a successful businessman. He had seen the look on his son's face at this news, and added that the Manor was a most strategic place for a headquarters.

This, Draco could not argue with. Malfoy Manor had been built on the blood of slaves centuries ago by his forefathers, an intimidating stone structure rising high and dark above the windswept moors of Wiltshire. It was difficult to get to and further protected by the primeval magic of Stonehenge, which lay but a few kilometers away.

Draco had thought that there had to be at least one other reason besides a helpful location for his father's decision, but he kept this to himself. If Lucius Malfoy had wanted to share his logic with his son, he would have. He also never made a decision without thinking it through from every angle, and Draco trusted his father to see the family through these times unscathed. Therefore, despite his personal misgivings about having their snakelike leader snoring just a few doors down the hallway, Draco merely nodded and went back to his meal.

He had not expected that his father would die.

When that green light thrown from the wand of an invisible attacker had slammed into his father's chest, Draco found himself rooted to the floor out of shock, unable to think. Even as feeling came back to his limbs and the bottom of his stomach returned itself to its rightful place, he could only think one thing. _That's now how it was supposed to be. _

Lucius Malfoy was supposed to die in his sizeable mahogany bed at Malfoy Manor, with his son and his son's as-yet-to-be-named wife and faceless grandchildren by his side. He was supposed to motion Draco to come closer, and then whisper some words of wisdom about life in his son's ear.

Lucius Malfoy was supposed to get them all out of this alive. Draco had been counting on him.

And instead, he was lying on the floor of Spinner's End, pale face occasionally illuminated by spells flying by, and Draco wasn't sure who had killed him.

Even now, two years later, he still didn't know.

"Lord Malfoy, are you alright?" the records keeper was asking, and he tore his mind away from his father's blank face and scowled at the frumpy woman standing in front of him, peering over her ill-fitting horn-rimmed glasses.

"Get out of my sight," he snarled. The woman nodded and moved off in the opposite direction, presumably to straighten books and spy on him through the shelves.

He seated himself in front of the roaring fireplace on a Louis XVI-inspired couch. His mother adored the style of the eighteenth-century French, particularly that of the doomed fashion-forward Marie Antoinette. Despite the strict no-redecoration policy of the Malfoys, she had insisted upon making her mark on the Manor when she had first moved in.

It was an odd sight, really, the effeminate French furniture amongst the severe, dark design chosen by his father's side of the family.

He banished thoughts of his mother from his mind and picked up several pieces of stained parchment from the pile in front of him.

If only his ancestors could see him now, reduce to reading henscratch by the order of someone else.

They were probably rolling over in their marble mausoleums.

Sighing in disgust, he tossed the notes aside and ran his hands through his hair. He was already aware of any information concerning the late Dumbledore's organization, thanks to his father's extremely knowledgeable informant. The man had worked for Lucius for years, and to Draco's well-hidden relief had informed the young man that he would continue to serve the house of Malfoy so long as it existed.

Draco wondered for the millionth time if the Dark Lord was aware that someone in his ranks was playing double agent for one of his esteemed Death Eaters.

Also for the millionth time, he came to the conclusion that the fact that the man was still alive and free from imprisonment suggested ignorance on Voldemort's part.

_Not necessarily_, hissed a nagging voice in the back of his mind. _It could be that he knows and simply doesn't care._

Although the Malfoy family was one of the oldest and most powerful pureblood families, the once Tom Riddle had quickly taken offense to Lucius Malfoy's unbending pride and cunning intelligence. Although there was no doubt that the head of the Malfoy family fully supported the idea of pureblood superiority, Lucius Malfoy had remained, until his death, his own man. This both impressed and terrified Voldemort, and he showed his mixed feelings by bestowing favor upon the Malfoys half the time and punishing or excluding them the other half. Lately, it appeared that he was more inclined towards the latter treatment, and Draco could not help but feel that Voldemort had mixed feelings about Lucius Malfoy's son as his successor.

Draco was young, though not much younger than his father had been when Lucius became Lord Malfoy after Abraxas Malfoy's death (which was rather ghastly, if the rumors were true). However, Draco had never seen battle, as his father had, and his parents' desire for him to be well-educated had precluded their desire for him to essentially learn how to be and make decisions as the head of the Malfoy family.

Clearly, he had not been alone in believing that they would all have more time together.

He shook his head to rid himself of such thoughts. The past was the past, and he couldn't go back.

The young man strode across the room towards the door, pulling it open and motioning at one of the servants standing silently at attention.

The Squibs rounded up from some of the more recent guerilla attacks were the newest additions to the Malfoy home. It had taken all of Draco's self-control not to pull a shocked expression when Voldemort had announced that he would be stationing human servants inside of his headquarters. The deviance from the centuries-old practice of using house elves, though surprising, was not totally a mystery to Draco's understanding. The Dark Lord fancied himself a King, with absolute power.

The blond boy had later supposed that forcing humans into such humiliating submission was just another way to show off.

The servant, a pimply youth with a pinched face, walked forward meekly, head bowed.

"My lord?"

"Ready my things for an extended trip. Pack with convenience in mind. I'll be leaving within the hour."

Without waiting for acknowledgement, he slammed the door in the boy's face.

**0000000000**

The sunlight struggled through the cracks in the walls, but it was enough to make Hermione Granger wake from a fitful sleep with a start.

She rubbed her eyes blearily and looked around the room at the other sleeping forms. Luna Lovegood snored lightly next to Dean Thomas, and Hermione considered rolling her over so the noise wouldn't attract any unwanted attention.

Then again, who would hear them?

For three days now, a small party of experienced Order members led by Hermione had been hiding out in Kimbolton Castle. They had been raiding the ancestral homes of prominent Death Eater families across the English countryside for two months, searching for the remaining two Horcruxes and destroying any dark magic items that could be used to Voldemort's advantage. It was common knowledge that most of the Death Eaters were on active duty, and therefore would not be home. Their terrified house elves and the occasional wife and child had been easy to subdue and _obliviate_.

Hermione crept with years of practiced stealth across the creaking floorboards and out of the room, not wanting to disturb any of her friends. It was rare that they found such a safe hideout lately, and all of them were in desperate need of a long sleep. After taking care to close the heavy door quietly, she began to wander through the castle, looking with wonder at all of the beautiful treasures of history it held.

Although it had gone unused for decades, Kimbolton Castle had stood through centuries of change. Remnants of the sixteenth century still stood, looking odd against the leftovers of World War II. Hermione ran her hands over the dusty tables, breathing in the musty air and allowing her ever-growing worries to fade while she focused on her love of learning.

She had always held a special place in her heart for historical buildings. Though occasionally teased by Ron for it, she had read _Hogwarts: A History _over and over again. The old school had seen so many things, had produced so many wizards from different walks of life, and still, it stood. The metaphor was comforting to Hermione. She needed to believe that in the face of everything, the Order of the Phoenix would still stand.

She needed to believe that they would survive.

It had been fourteen months since she had seen Ron, and nearly as long since she'd seen Harry. Halfway through the three years of war, Harry, now acting leader of the Order of the Phoenix, had insisted that Gryffindor's Golden Three split up. _"It's stupid for us all to keep running around together. Just makes it that much easier for Voldemort: when he finds one, he's found the other two."_

The Order had agreed, and the three of them had now been separated for a year and a half. As per a later agreement, only Harry knew Ron and Hermione's whereabouts, and neither of the latter knew where Harry or the other was. Thus, if one was captured by Voldemort and certain torture ensued, the entire resistance operation would not be blown to smithereens.

The less you knew, the better. Only the leader knew the whole story, and a hard-learned lesson it was.

Hermione shuddered to remember the day they had all learned that.

_Parvati had been crying for three days._

_Seamus Finnegan, her fiancé, had been captured by the Death Eaters. Harry had been in tension-filled talks with senior members of the Order since the information had been received, debating whether or not to go after him. Ron and Hermione were seated off to the side, listening to the various arguments._

_Molly Weasley, ever the mothering hen, had wanted to send a small party to see if they could rescue him._

"_You're assuming he's been imprisoned!" Remus Lupin snapped in frustration, slamming his hand on the kitchen table of Number 12 Grimmauld Place._

_The room was silent. Molly looked helplessly around the room, as if willing someone else to tell her what else she was supposed to think._

_After a moment, smiling tiredly at Tonks's reassuring hand on his shoulder, Remus calmed enough to continue speaking._

"_If we knew that he was being kept in a cell somewhere, I would feel differently. However, Molly, I would like to point out that Finnegan is the first member of the Order that the Death Eaters have captured alive since the war began. Voldemort would be a fool to let him rot in a prison; if he has not already tortured him for information, he will do so very soon. Sending in a rescue team would be suicide, and the Death Eaters are probably expecting it. I am not trying to downplay the loss of Finnegan: it will be felt by all of us and we should remember his courage. I believe we have a much more important issue at hand to focus on."_

_At this, Harry, who had been silent during the entire meeting, suddenly spoke. "What do you think we ought to be worrying about, Remus?"_

"_We have been here at Grimmauld Place for far too long," Remus answered earnestly. "We do not know how long Finnegan will be able to withstand Voldemort's torture-dark magic gives its wielder a dreadful power under which even the strongest of us would soon crumble. I believe an evacuation from this place is long overdue."_

_Several of the Order members, particularly Kingsley Shacklebolt, nodded in agreement. _

_Hermione looked at Harry, waiting to see what he would say. _

_She understood why he was slow to quit the place, even though all of the Order's most important members hiding together in one spot was ill-advised. Indeed, Number 12 was, like other ancient pureblood homes, protected by an old magic, but there were members of the Black family in service to Voldemort. It was still unknown to the Order whether or not those persons would be able to pass through the protective magic of their bloodline, but Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that the dark history of the Black family would work against the Order. _

_Despite this, Harry had remained in the house mostly because it reminded him of Sirius, who had been a pillar of support and confidence for Harry in the tragically short time the two had spent together. It was here, in this house, that Harry felt the most comfortable, and he had once told Hermione that he could feel the presence of his godfather here. The love he had received from one of the two people in his life who had been parent figures to him reminded him of the most important advantage he had over Voldemort._

_The muffled sound of an explosion from outside the front door would ensure that Harry's personal views on removing the Order from Grimmauld Place would forever be unknown. _

_Wands drawn, those closest to the kitchen exit raced into the hallway, Ron and Hermione hot on their heels. Dust from the now-demolished front door floated in the foyer, making it difficult to breathe. Hermione fought the urge to cough and peered into the darkness._

_Bellatrix Lestrange's gaunt face and maniacal laughter headed the pack of Death Eaters that spilled into the house._

_And as spells began to fly, Hermione realized with a start that they had gotten an answer to their unspoken question._

_Seamus had told Voldemort everything._

_The first captured member of the Order had been broken._

The evening had got much worse from there. Hermione struggled to push the memories out of her head, tried reminding herself that she was here in the sunlight, that the same mistakes had not been made, that that night had happened two and a half years ago. But The Memory, the worst memory of all, tugged on the edges of her mind, announcing its presence with a sinister whisper.

_Hermione felt something soft hit her on the side of the head. She turned with a start, wand raised and ready. There was shouting all around her; Harry was calling for the Order members to stand strong. Though the Death Eaters had had the original advantage of surprise, they had stupidly trapped themselves in the foyer. Harry and Remus, quickly realizing this, had instructed everyone to fight from the three rooms lining either side of the hallway. Hermione had pulled Ginny into the nearest room, using the doorframe as protection, picking Death Eaters off one by one._

_She looked around frantically, trying to discover who or what had hit her. Was the ceiling collapsing? She threw her hand out blindly, searching for an invisible enemy._

_Something else hit her, this time in the arm. It was also soft, and….wet?_

_Hermione looked down slowly, afraid of what she would find. The foyer was dark, but there was some glistening substance on her arm, dripping onto the floor._

_Against her better judgment, she swiped at it with her finger and lifted her hand into the light._

_Blood ran down her finger._

But I'm not injured_, she thought stupidly._

_Across the hall, Molly began screaming. Hermione lifted her wand again, ready to defend herself and her friends. But no one seemed to be attacking Molly at the momen;, the fight had moved a bit further down the hall. Instead, the formerly jovial woman was holding something in her hands, staring at it in abject horror._

_Before Hermione could discern what it was, she felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck, and instinctively turned her head towards the battle scene._

_Bellatrix was standing there, grinning ferally at the two women and holding some white things in her arms. Noticing Hermione's confused expression, she pulled something out of the middle of the pile and rolled it towards the girl._

_Hermione couldn't help it._

_She looked._

_And Seamus's tortured face, with just a stump of a neck left, looked back._

Hermione could barely stop herself from crying. Feeling tears about to make their way down her face, she huffed and began walking from room to room, forcing herself to concentrate on the paintings and furniture.

She stopped at a window that displayed a particularly stunning view of the Cambridgeshire landscape, staring out across the perfectly English fields. Sometimes she wished that she was still a child, completely unaware of her magical capabilities, enjoying a warm spring drive with her parents in the countryside. Harold and Athena Granger had wanted their daughter to grow up appreciating the beauty of the land they lived in, and they would spend those drives telling her stories about the houses that rose imposingly above the trees-homes in which many English kings occasionally took residence.

And for the millionth time, she wondered just how she had ended up all alone.

Yes, she had some of her friends with her, but it had been different when she was the bookworm "brains" of the Golden Trio. She'd had both Harry and Ron to confer with, and the three of them had often made decisions together.

And then Harry had sent them both away and forbidden them to communicate with anyone, giving them extremely limited information and asking them to lead the members in their charge with it. It was almost as if they had gone from being his friends to being his liabilities.

And she knew that he had been right to do that, she knew. This was bigger than any of them, and the wizards of the world were counting on the Order of the Phoenix to save them from the talons of the Dark Lord and his dream of pureblood domination. But sometimes, a very small, utterly human part of her felt almost abandoned.

Hermione almost laughed at the irony.

When King Henry VIII tired of Catherine of Aragon and was unable to divorce her as he wished, he had sent her here, to Kimbolton Castle. The famously pious woman had died here, forgotten by those who had once loved her.

And now, nearly 500 years later, Hermione had been sent to Kimbolton, cut off from the ones she most desperately wanted to be with.

The parallel was too great to ignore.

Sighing heavily, Hermione turned away from the window and continued her leisurely stroll around the house. She was just about to head back upstairs to lie down and try to get at least another hour's sleep when she heard a faint _pop _that sounded suspiciously like Apparition.

Seconds later, the heavy boots of some invisible person began to move across the floor.

They were no longer alone.

**0000000000**

**I've been known in my time to leave evil cliffhangers.**

**Read and review please.**

**Love,**

**Carrie**


	2. Chapter 2

**As always, a huge thank you to my readers and supporters.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from the wonderful world of Harry Potter, except this plot.**

**And here we go.**

**0000000000**

People hate what they do not know and what they cannot understand.

His father had told him that, the first summer Draco had come home from school asking why his schoolmates believed that he and his mother were victims of abuse at Lucius's hands.

The Gryffindors had been the most hellbent on perceiving this rumor as true, though it was no stranger to being discussed in whispered tones by even his own Hogwarts House.

Several verbal battles with the other students that had left even his normally pale features flushed with rage did nothing to quell the gossip. In fact, it had only seemed to fuel it.

Draco had often wondered why no one ever bothered to point out that Gryffindor's own Golden Boy, Harry Potter, had been subject to quite slavish conditions at the hands of his own relatives.

To the outside world, Lucius Malfoy presented a composed, aloof demeanor. Though this seemed to translate to "cold" and "cruel" to those who did not know him, in truth, Draco's father loved his wife and son and would never have allowed harm to come to either of them, especially by his own doing. Few Death Eater husbands, in fact, championed corporal punishment when it came to their families. There were some exceptions to this, naturally, as in any society. Augustus Rookwood, for instance, had beaten his wife to death following her second miscarriage, which had rendered them still childless. Draco, then seven years old, had later overheard Augustus admitting to his father that the former believed that some sort of curse had been placed upon the Rookwood family by his deceased wife's supposed philandering with other men. _"Killing Chryseis was the only way to break the curse. I had to kill her," _Rookwood had said.

Shortly after that, Rookwood had been convicted of murder by the Wizengamot and sent to Azkaban for his crime. A full detail of the deadly assault had been reported by the _Daily Prophet_, and people were quick to come to the conclusion that all Death Eaters were cold-blooded murderers with no respect for human life.

Draco hated those people.

It wasn't the gossip itself that bothered him-the Malfoy family had been in the public eye for generations and Narcissa Malfoy, the paragon of class, had taught him to ignore what people said about him or the family.

No, what aggravated him beyond belief was that it had shown the so-called "Light" side to be composed of a bunch of hypocrites. The credo upon which Albus Dumbledore repeatedly pontificated throughout all his many years of life-love, respect, honor, and acceptance-was not reflected in his followers at all. Rather, all of those attributes only applied to those who worshipped Harry Potter as the savior of the Wizarding world. Draco had even seen Dumbledore falter on occasion, particularly in his dealings with Lucius.

And it was that line of reasoning that had headed Draco's difficult, hostile years at Hogwarts. It was that line of reasoning that had led him to develop a personal hatred for Dumbledore.

Draco had never been ashamed of his beliefs. Pureblood Wizards were superior to half-bloods and muggle-borns, and had every right to lead Wizarding society. It wasn't until he went to school that he had learned that these ideas were considered evil in the eyes of others. And he could not seem to separate himself and his own beliefs from those of Voldemort. Dumbledore and Hogwarts had robbed him of his individuality.

He had been viewed only as the son of a killer who would grow up to be a killer and who would continue to serve a killer.

"Fuck Albus Dumbledore and the Order of the Pansies," he muttered to himself, stalking down the corridors of Malfoy Manor.

Not for the first time, however, the thought that Voldemort might be stealing the same thing that Dumbledore had taken from him crept into his mind.

It had always been difficult to tell what the Dark Lord wanted from his followers. When they acted as individuals, he reacted with fury and usually punished them in agonizing ways. When they acted as sheep, on the other hand, he cursed them for their weakness.

Draco took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. He would step into the office, politely inform Voldemort that he was departing on his mission, and then he would get the hell out of the manor and as far away from it as fast as humanly possible.

The door to the study swung open before he could knock.

"Ah, Lord Malfoy," the Dark Lord hissed, dismissing the other occupants of the room with a wave of his hand. "Come in."

Draco bowed stiffly and wondered if his resentment at being so patronized in his own home was written all over his face.

"Leaving us so soon? You were not scheduled to depart until tomorrow morning. It is very late and I want you well-rested for your mission."

"I understand, my Lord," Draco said quietly. "However, I feel that leaving under the cover of darkness would be the best way for me to arrive at my destination undetected. I plan to rest once I arrive at Arundel Castle. It is near where Pucey left off his incomplete mission. From there, I will endeavor to finish what he started, extracting information by any means necessary."

Voldemort was silent, eyeing Draco curiously. Finally, after hacking into a rather large cloth (Draco was immensely pleased that it was not his "mission" to clean that cloth of its revolting contents), he shifted in his seat and spoke.

"Very well. You are free to go."

Draco nodded and turned to leave.

"But remember, my Achilles: I will be watching you very carefully."

**0000000000**

The Apparition to the woods just outside of Arundel was easy enough. Although he relished in the freedom of the cool night air, Draco could not help but look over his shoulder, as though he would see one of Voldemort's spies standing right behind him.

No one was there.

He sighed and began walking up to the castle, his mind lingering on the Dark Lord's last words. The man had called him _Achilles_, the name of the famed Greek warrior. What had he meant by that?

A raven flew overhead, cawing loudly, and thoughts of the comparison were banished from his mind as Draco remembered uneasily that the Dark Lord had many spies, not all of whom took human form.

Once inside, he transfigured a bed for himself out of a broken wooden chair and fell into a fitful sleep.

The next day, Draco headed down to the nearby Wizarding village. It was small, and there was an odd atmosphere to the place. Several of the homes looked abandoned, and the people stopped what they were doing to eye him with distrust as he strode past.

Clearly, he was not the first of Voldemort's followers that they had been introduced to.

He headed for the largest house in the village, vaguely remembering something about the leader of towns like these residing in the biggest dwelling. It was not that difficult to find; most of the villagers seemed to live in nothing more than shacks, and the old, dilapidated construction on the far side of the half-mile town was the biggest building, no contest.

He walked very carefully up the stairs of the rotting porch, not wanting to destroy his intimidating image by taking a quick trip through the wood to the ground. Draco rapped on the door loudly and then stepped back to wait.

It didn't take long for the door to open, and the short, balding man inside the house to motion him in without a word.

Draco was led into a living room that contained furniture in a revolting state of disrepair. He politely declined the invitation to sit, eyeing the torn chair with reserved disgust. The man shrugged his shoulders and perched himself on the edge of a stained couch, looking up expectantly.

"I assume you know why I'm here?" Draco asked without any preamble.

The man nodded.

"Good. Give me the information I need, and I will quit your town immediately."

At this, the man laughed a bit, the first noise Draco had heard out of him since he'd arrived.

"I will give you what you came for sir; but first, you are going to have to do something for me."

Ah yes. In wartime, even civilians quickly learned the merits of bargaining for their lives.

Draco rolled his eyes. "And what it is that you request?"

"Our supply lines have been cut. You walked through the town. You saw that the people are starving."

No, actually, he hadn't bothered to pay much attention.

"And? What do you expect me to do about it? We are in a war; civilians get caught up in it whether they like it or not. Petition your local representative for help."

"Indeed," the man said, leaning back and folding his hands on his lap. "But you are one of the Dark Lord's elite. Surely you have the power to put in an undeniable request that food and other necessities be sent here."

Draco nodded along. Whether or not he was aware of it, this strange man had just given away some very interesting information.

When he first came into power seven months ago, Voldemort had assigned viceroys to different sections of England, taking a page from the Egyptian pharoahs' methods of ensuring that order was kept throughout their vast kingdom. The Dark Lord made it clear that he did not want his Death Eaters partaking in what he considered to be petty work.

Clearly, the Dark Lord's precarious hold over the Wizarding world was slipping more than he wanted to admit.

"I will make the recommendation," Draco said. _Maybe, and only if I bother to find out who isn't doing his job_, he added mentally.

The man smiled weakly. "Very well. In that case, my Lord, a group of your enemy was spotted heading towards Cambridgeshire. That is all I know."

"Thank you." Without another word, Draco turned and left the house without saying farewell.

**0000000000**

Hermione was a seasoned warrior, relatively speaking. She had fought against the Death Eaters numerous times, quickly overcoming her misgivings against using some of the more nasty curses against her enemies.

She had found her will to survive greater than her morality, and she hated the war for that, even as she enjoyed seeing what she was made of.

The war between the Dark and Light sides had quickly degenerated into hit-and-run attacks. There were no open battles, with a decided time and meeting place, as it had been in the old days. Any romantic visions of wartime had quickly gone out the window, and Hermione found herself examining war in its reality with interest.

Civilian casualties had been high at points, and people were quick to change their tune depending on who they were talking to. At Hogwarts, Hermione had found herself buoyed by the seeming outpouring of support for Harry Potter, and by proxy, the Golden Trio. She had believed that people would rally to the defense of the Order of the Phoenix, and that Voldemort and his armies would quickly be demolished in the face of Good.

Now, three years later, those staunch beliefs and her sixteen-year-old self seemed very far away.

She felt around in her robes for her wand, feeling a burst of confidence as her hand touched its wooden handle. She pulled it out slowly, easing herself into the shadows of the staircase, and waited for the intruder to come into view. She prayed that the others would awaken once they heard the sounds of spells being thrown.

Remus Lupin rounded the corner, and Hermione felt the unfamiliar waves of relief coursing through her body.

"Remus!" she cried, her voice shaky. "You scared me half to death!"

A small smile appeared on the werewolf's pale face. "I apologize. I'm very glad to see you Hermione, but unfortunately I don't have much time."

Hermione nodded, pulling Remus away from the stairs and into a nearby dusty room. "How is everyone? Are Harry and Ron alright? What about the rest of the Weasleys?"

She gestured at one of the chairs, silently inviting her friend to sit. Since his attack many years ago, Remus had suffered chronic bouts of illness. Even during his time as a teacher at Hogwarts, he had always looked as though he could use a good sleep. Now, however, he appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Hermione supposed it was the stress of the war-the constant inability to be able to sit down and rest for a while seemed to put a damper on even the Weasleys' usually overwhelming energy.

She thought fondly of Ron for a moment, but the serious look on her friend's face brought her back down to reality with a crashing halt.

"What's wrong?" she asked cautiously.

"I may have been followed," Remus admitted. "There's been rumors of Death Eaters in the area. Fenrir Greyback in particular appears to have lately developed a kind of morbid fascination with me. Adrian Pucey was spotted near Arundel. Tonks and I did some further investigation, seeing as that area was ravaged by war two years ago and all that remains are small villages of people. Turns out-"

"-he was looking for the Order of the Phoenix," Hermione finished, her breath hitching in her throat. A thought occurred to her, and she asked, "Remus, how did you acquire this knowledge?"

"How else?" Remus replied, a grim smile ghosting over his face. "The locals required certain compensation for it, of course, to put it politely."

Hermione nodded, sinking down into a chair of her own. She and her team had been at Arundel only a month ago. They had barely spoken to the villagers-once it was deemed that the area was clear of Death Eaters and any Dark Arts materials, there was no need for her to stay there.

She supposed that they had been recognized for what they were anyway.

And if the Order of the Phoenix could buy information for a price, so could the Death Eaters.

She looked up at Remus, who was nodding slowly as if he could read her thoughts.

"Has Pucey been seen anywhere else?" she asked.

Remus shook his head. "He seems to have disappeared. But even if he is no longer leading that particular mission, Voldemort will put someone else in charge of it."

The unspoken message was there.

"I'll wake the others," she said numbly.

Remus nodded. "I think it would be wise. Where are you going next?"

"Hatfield, in Hertfordshire. The abandoned Parkinson estate is a few miles from Hatfield House." She rose from her chair and started towards the door, intent upon leaving as quickly as possible.

"Hermione," Remus called. She paused and turned. "I'm sorry I could not bring you better news."

She waved her hand, dismissing the apology. "How many of them are after us?"

Remus shrugged, also rising. "I don't know. You must be ready for whatever comes. Good luck."

Hermione heard the distinct pop as she walked slowly back up the stairs.

**0000000000**

_Pucey had been a fool to return._

Such were Draco's thoughts as he carefully stepped through the small woods outside the nameless town, searching for a suitable subject.

_Everyone knows what happens when you fail the Dark Lord._

Granted, Voldemort had never been the most kind or forgiving of leaders, but Lucius had taught Draco that a good leader must exercise strong management skills. Both rewards and punishments are to be handed out only when they are deserved. The leader must never be afraid to deal in both: he must show that he is balanced.

Since he gained the upper hand, Voldemort had been showing himself to be anything but. His body might have been in a weakened state, but his magic was growing stronger at an unprecedented rate.

Draco often privately wondered (_out of mere curiosity_, he insisted to himself) exactly what kind of magic it would take to kill the Dark Lord. The sacrifices Voldemort had made of himself to the Black Magick were being repaid generously, filling his feeble shell with a powerful, twisting magic that further corrupted his monstrosity.

A simple _Avada Kedavra_ would no longer dispatch him. Nor would the destruction of his Horcruxes, which he now relied on for strength rather than survival. 

So, unless a member of the Order of the Phoenix showed extraordinary cleverness as well as talent, mental fortitude, and a capability for powerful magic (an eye for the Dark Arts wouldn't hurt, either), Voldemort had essentially achieved his goal of invincibility. And while it was unlikely that any one of the Order of the Peasants possessed even two of those traits together, it was impossible that all four could be found in one person.

In fact, if Draco were to be completely honest, it would probably have been difficult for even the powerful Dumbledore to defeat Voldemort now.

Not to mention the Dark Lord's increased unpredictability as of late, which rendered him even more dangerous. Rather unfortunately, his sanity had flown the coop with his vulnerability.

Once shrewd and calculating, the Dark Lord had become moody and paranoid. Hours formerly spent supporting the war efforts were now devoted to ferreting out nonexistent coups and invisible traitors. His emotions ranged from ecstatic to delusional to serious in a matter of minutes, and he often spent time huddled in a chair by a fire with his great disgusting snake, jabbering wildly at it about death, power, and glory.

And that was only but a taste of his madness.

Rumors accompanied by hushed whispers and fearful glances reverberated through the ranks. Was it the ascent to power that had broken Voldemort? Or perhaps his newfound magic? No one knew. What was absolutely clear, however, was that the change in Voldemort's behavior was affecting his advantage and that, more than anything else, was making the war harder to win than it should have been.

This, sadly, was lost on Voldemort. Rather, he continuously focused on his followers as the source of any failure or setback, punishing them out of increasingly uncontrolled rage for their mistakes when lucid, and murdering them in unspeakable ways for nothing when not.

"Absolutely barking mad," Draco muttered to himself. Spotting what he'd been looking for, he dropped down to the ground on one knee, and silently cast a simple calming spell. The rabbit walked up to him with little hesitation, and sat by the toe of his boot with no caution. The blond Malfoy pulled a short knife out of his pocket, and gently drew a bit of blood from the rabbit's paw, as well as from his own hand. He rubbed the droplets together with his fingers, and then pushed his hand into the dirt. The spell was short; the words were few, although it was vital that their pronunciation and cadence be precise. A faint purple light appeared around the rabbit for a moment, and then disappeared.

Draco rose and put the knife back in his pocket. He brushed off his hands on his pants, and looked down at the rabbit, which remained seated on the ground, looking up at him.

"Well, go," Draco said. "Find them."

The rabbit's lightning-quick feet took off through the underbrush, and within seconds the wooded glen was once more silent. Draco waited briefly-just to ensure that everything was alright-and then walked off in the opposite direction, smiling a bit to himself.

The Dark Lord was not the only one with spies.

**0000000000**

**Chapter 2, end.**


End file.
